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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28736187">Nails Torn From Digging At Your Grave</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenQueenofClubs/pseuds/GreenQueenofClubs'>GreenQueenofClubs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Broken Hands, Reaching [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alan Blunt is an asshole, Alex is sad and angry and tired, Alex!POV, M/M, Pining, Scenes from between Ch04 and Ch05 of 'Burning a Dead Man's Fingertips', who fucking knew</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:02:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,538</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28736187</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenQueenofClubs/pseuds/GreenQueenofClubs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>How deep could one paranoid bastard bury himself?</p>
<p>Bloody fucking hell, bloody fucking Russian assassin.</p>
<p>Alex missed him so much.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Broken Hands, Reaching [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2106729</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>90</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Nails Torn From Digging At Your Grave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This takes place during 'Burning a Dead Man's Fingertips', and probably makes very little sense if you haven't read it. Good news, it's pretty decent, if I do say so myself, so you can check that one out and come back!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex took a careful note on his pad before slamming his laptop shut with a growl. A full month of research, and he still had nothing but a long string of shell companies and false identities, each more obscure than the previous.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How deep could one paranoid bastard bury himself?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was tired, exhausted really, and still smelled of stale airplanes and acrid chemical smoke. The mission had been a rough one, draining in a long line of draining assignments Mrs Jones had thrown at his head in an effort to distract him from-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex growled and jumped to his feet, pacing frantically in his living room. Fuck Yassen Fucking Gregorovich, fuck him to Siberia and back. Five fucking weeks, and not a peep from him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fucking bastard. Fucking contrary murderous bastard, how </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare </span>
  </em>
  <span>he do exactly what Alex had asked from him!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bloody fucking hell, bloody fucking Russian assassin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex missed him so much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He missed his steady presence by his side in mission. He missed his sharp blue eyes that always seem to slice right through him. He missed playing sous-chef whenever they spent evenings together, and Yassen felt like showing off. He missed Yassen’s elegance and ruthlessness when he fought, or shot, or walked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He did not miss having to hide inconveniently timed horniness, but he had learnt to deal with it. And with the hopeless pining. He had it handled. He had.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was a big boy, who just really missed his partner.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All his angry strings cut, Alex crumpled on his chair like a limp puppet. His chest rarely loosened these days, rarely stopped burning and lancing, but right now his lungs could barely pull air in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe Yassen was glad to be rid of him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex shook his head with frustration. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> had told Yassen to leave. He had pushed him away in panic, and had unequivocally rejected both his partner and their partnership. He didn’t get to try and throw the fault on Yassen. He didn’t get to pretend like Yassen had left of his own volition to lessen the guilt, the loneliness and the anger he had for himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You had one person, Alex Rider. You had one person that saw you for all you were, and cared. You had one person who protected you through thick and thin, and now he’s gone, because of you. And isn’t that just the way.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yassen had cared for him. Yassen’s care for him, as a person and a friend, not just as a partner, now had a body count in the double digits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man who seemed carved of ice cared about him so much, Alex could barely breathe through the maelstrom of conflicted feelings when he dwelt on it too long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pushing back the horror at the memory of the green field tainted red, of bodies strewn around by an uncaring force of nature, of Yassen shooting down the chief of security with less consideration that Alex gave to him socks, Alex opened his laptop again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His notes were a jumbled mess, but Alex would untangle them. Even if he needed an actual corkboard and red string, he’d untangle them. He knew Yassen more than anyone else on this fucking planet, and despite his best efforts, the man wasn’t perfect. Alex would find the chink in his digital armor, and he would locate whatever cave Yassen was huddling in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yassen cared so much, had done so much for Alex, it was only fair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was only fair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex froze, fingers perched above his keyboard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yassen cared, and proved it regularly. But he had left, and hadn’t contacted Alex since. Alex cast his mind through the haze that was the last night of the Tyzeri Operation, pushing through the shock and the anger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yassen hadn’t been angry when Alex told him to fuck off. He hadn’t seemed surprised, or shocked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yassen had been… Resigned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Resigned, that Alex was casting him away, as if he had expected it. As if Alex rejecting him was a matter of time. A foregone conclusion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The back of his neck turned ice cold, chest twisting in fear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yassen had to know how much Alex cared, didn’t he? The man seemed to read his mind at times, surely he had noticed how Alex was always reaching for him, how often he showed up at his apartment with the flimsiest of excuses. Alex had always been glad at Yassen for politely ignoring his clumsy flirting, his inconvenient crush on him, but surely the man had to know?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surely he knew how much his friendship meant to Alex?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had to know that some days he was the only thing that allowed Alex to navigate the burning fury that always smouldered in his gut, the urge to tear down MI6 and all the people who had ruined his life with his bare teeth. And that Alex cherished every tidbit of Yassen he uncovered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that Alex wished he could make Yassen feel half as safe as he made him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surely, he was aware that Alex wanted to have him around, forever, in whatever capacity Yassen would allow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surely-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But they had never spoken of it, had they? So often, Alex talked pirouettes around Yassen’s silences, but rarely about anything of substance. Because it was easier to joke, even with Yassen. They rarely ever really talked, face to face, equal to equal with actual words and meaningful truths.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yassen spoke through his guns, through his unfailing loyalty and dedication to Alex, through the rare sincere smiles he couldn’t quite stiffle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex thought he had made himself clear by his hugs, and how he would commandeer Yassen’s lap as foot rests, and how he would fuss over stitches and bandages on the rare occasions the man would be injured.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But maybe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe he hadn’t-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He needed to talk to Yassen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He needed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>find </span>
  </em>
  <span>Yassen.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Pale eyes, scalpel sharp with fury. Gun shot after gun shot, never hesitating for a second, moving as if killing four men was a dance he had spent his life rehearsing.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Warm blood, not his own, spraying across his face like a back-handed slap.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yassen, please stop.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex groaned as he seeped back into consciousness, his neck protesting as he unfolded himself. He had fallen asleep on the dining table, with his still open laptop shining back accusingly at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Freeze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was someone in the house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a brilliant, brief second, he convinced himself Yassen had come back. It would be just the dramatic bastard’s type to sneak into the dark house and lounge in the living room, waiting for Alex to notice him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But no. The stillness, the shift of the air was wrong. Alex was used to having Yassen a his back, his unseen presence a reassuring pressure. This was different. Not actively threatening, but antipathetic enough to make his skin crawl.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keeping up the pretence of waking up, Alex stretched his arms to reach for the knife hidden in his waistband.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s no need for that, Alex.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex froze again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew that voice. That voice had had a starring role in many of his nightmares along the years. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alan Fucking Blunt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dropping his hand, Alex pointedly took the time to close his laptop and straighten his notepads and pens. Of course, Blunt would have had plenty of opportunity to read and look over his work before Alex woke up. Who knew how long the man had been in his house. Alex really should have woken sooner. He had survived too long as a spy not to have a sixth sense for people sneaking about, even in his sleep. But he was in a safe, familiar environment, he was exhausted, and for all his faults, Alan Blunt had been very good at his job.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally out of excuses to delay, Alex casually turned around. Blunt was seated in the armchair, angled to have a good line of vision to Alex. He lorded over the comfortable living room with the same stifling presence he had had in his office at ‘Royal and General’. Alex hadn’t seen the man since he had retired, following the last fall of Scorpia, but the last five years barely seemed to have affected Alant Blunt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even in his retirement, he was as grey as ever, with his perfectly pressed granite-colored suit and his expressionless face. Not for the first time, Alex couldn’t help wonder what a man like Alan Blunt did with unlimited freetime. What kind of hobby did he have? Did he have a family? Or was he just put in the cryo-box, to be unfrozen in case MI6 needed to ruin Alex’s life again?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why don’t you take a seat?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gestured to the sofa in front of him with a short wave of the hand, less of an offer and more of a demand. Blunt had stopped pretending to be polite with Alex long before he disappeared from his life, why would he bother now? Mrs Jones, despite being almost as ruthlessly practical as Alan Blunt had been, still had enough genuine human emotion to make herself palatable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alan Blunt might as well be a robot covered in barely credible skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex didn’t move from the stiff dining table chair. Blunt didn’t seem surprised.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very well. I’ll cut to the chase, Alex.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why, do you also have kids I need to save from a brainwashing cult?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blunt didn’t react, the bastard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m here at the behest of Mrs Jones. She is concerned about you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex barely contained the snarl that exploded from deep in his chest. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Concerned about him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>As if Mrs Jones, or anyone in MI6 had any right to be concerned about him. As if Blunt had any right to show up to his house in the middle of the night to lecture him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How very nice of her.” He snapped. Blunt didn’t sigh at Alex’s aggressive attitude, but his body language shifted in subtle remontrance. Like a school teacher, disappointed in a pupil. Alex wanted to punch him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your attachment to Yassen Gregorovich is proving to be detrimental both to your mental wellbeing and your performances in the field.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yassen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blunt was trespassing on his house, the house of the uncle he had gotten killed, the house of the boy he had drafted to the slaughter when he was fourteen because of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yassen.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Afraid of what vicious curse would escape if he opened his mouth, Alex stayed silent, fingers curling into the grain of the table, trying to center himself. He was too exhausted, his nerves were frayed too thin for Blunt’s double-edged provocations.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was a mistake to allow the both of you to work together, but I understand Mrs Jones expected your partnership to erode after a few assignments.” Blunt continued, monotone and bland to the last.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It didn’t.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Evidently. Gregorovich’s powers of manipulation proved greater than she had anticipated. A shame. You had always been a stubborn boy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bile rose to Alex’s throat. Who did Blunt think he was? Some kind of green amateur that couldn’t recognize mindgames? Couldn’t resist suggestions, no matter how subtle? He had gone toe to toe with some of the most vicious, amoral, brilliant manipulators of their times, Blunt included, and he had emerged victorious every time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was going to therapy, for fuck’s sake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only the fact that his anger on Yassen’s behalf burned as bright as his indignation kept him from shouting at the disgusting man. Yassen, who had always supported Alex, who had valued his insight and his skills, who had left Alex’s life when asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yassen’s only ‘manipulation’ had been to threat Alex like a person worthy of being cared for and respected, and didn’t that reflect splendidly on Alan Fucking Blunt?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know me, I’m an easy lay for anyone who feeds me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alex.” Blunt did sigh this time. Not regret, god forbid, but irritation. Alex wondered if he still saw him as a fourteen year old, or if he was condescending to all his operatives.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gregorovich’s intentions are not pure, no matter of what he managed to convince you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s mighty fucking rich coming from you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My intentions were always to protect the people of Great Britain. Can Gregorovich claim the same?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yassen intended to protect me, which is more than you and your toadies ever did.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I care to protect people enough for the both of us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Until he breaks you to his will.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex almost burst out laughing. The only times Yassen ever went directly against Alex’s will were about fast food, and even that could be negotiated. Alex wasn’t stupid. Yassen had morphed himself a lot more to fit Alex than the other way around, mostly because Yassen wasn’t overly attached to his job definition. He had been an assassin because he was good at it, and it helped keep him safe, not because he took pleasure in it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hard to do that when he won’t even speak to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex had never told MI6 Yassen had left because he had asked him. It had felt too personal, like airing dirty laundry Mrs Jones wasn’t entitled to. And Alex had still hoped, in those early days, that Yassen would slink back like an irritated cat, and MI6 knowing of their spat would make things awkward and complicated. He didn’t know what Yassen had told them, but he doubted it involved more than an empty e-mail with “I’m retiring” as a subject line.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were lucky, Alex. That doesn’t mean you will be again. Yassen was molded into what he was by your father, when he was about your age. There would be very little stopping him from doing the same to you, given the level of unwarranted trust you put in him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that why you worked so hard to keep him away from me? You were trying to </span>
  <em>
    <span>protect </span>
  </em>
  <span>me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex didn’t even bother pointing out that would be a first, from Alan Blunt of all people. The man who left him to rot and be dissected alive at Point Blank because he was afraid Alex was faking the danger he was in. The man who sent a </span>
  <em>
    <span>sniper </span>
  </em>
  <span>to shoot at Alex’s school to ‘bend Alex to his will’.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We were concerned about him having undue influence on you, yes. And it seems we were right. Look at how he acted the second you showed any weakness. 17 people died, executed, in your name. A few more months, and he’d have you convinced those actions were not that much of an issue. A few years, and maybe you’ll be joining him in the slaughter. He is not a good man, Alex.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘They weren’t good people, Alex.’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>‘What the bloody hell does that make you, then?’</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex pushed back the memories, the accusations he had thrown at the person he cared the most about, outside of Jack. Of course Yassen wasn’t a good man, no one worked in espionage for two decades and emerged with an intact moral compass. Not Yassen, not Alex’s dad, not Blunt, maybe not even Ian.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was alright. Alex would care, would keep caring, even if it hurt. Yassen always listened to Alex’s reservations, always did his best to work with them. Yassen wasn’t Hunter, and Alex wasn’t John. They could figure this out. Alex just had to find him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t know either of us half as well as you like to think.” Alex told Blunt, leaning back in his chair, the decision settling into his bones. He would find Yassen, they would talk, they would work out a way to be together again, and Alan Blunt could, and would, go fuck himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blunt didn’t answer for a long time, staring at Alex. He didn’t know what the former Chief Executive of the Special Operations of MI6 saw, in the quiet living room only illuminated by the lampposts outside the window.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you really think you can control him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex could have had Alan Blunt’s head stuffed and hung on his mantel piece, if he had wanted it, if he had asked for it. He could have seen Mrs Jones, Crawley and the rest of MI6 burned to the ground if he had cared for it. If he had listened to the smoldering anger that never quite burned out when Yassen made his terrifying offer. Or at any time afterwards. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only reason Alan Blunt had the lungs to lecture him in his own house was because Alex had demanded that Yassen spare him. And because Yassen listened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was Blunt furious that he had held Yassen Gregorovich’s leash for more than a decade, and Alex Rider was the only one he had ever truly listened to? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was Alan Blunt furious that Yassen Gregorovich was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alex’s</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex Rider and Yassen Gregorovich had chosen each other, willingly and completely, when neither of them had been more than begrudging pawns for MI6. Yet Alan Blunt spoke to him as if he had a snowball’s chance in hell to drive them apart. Whatever issues they had at the moment, they were between the both of them, and they would be resolved by the both of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alan Blunt, five years retired, didn’t mean shit to Alex, and somehow seemed unaware of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex wanted to laugh again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not always about control.” He said instead, as if Alan Blunt could understand the world as anything more than a web of power relationships.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is for men like him.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘Men like us’ he had meant. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ha.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yassen wasn’t anything like Alan Blunt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Were you always that bad at reading people? Or did your brain melt when you retired?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One thing could be said for Blunt, his poker face was as impeccable as any Alex had ever seen, including Yassen’s when he was in work mode. Somehow, Alex could tell he had irritated the man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alex.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No really, that sounds like a pretty bad weakness for a spy, being </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>wrong at knowing what makes people tick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you know anything about him? Anything beyond what MI6 told you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I know he never gets sick, and he’s usually both smug and melancholy about it. I know he doesn’t need more than four hours of sleep per night, but once in a blue moon he’ll find a patch of sun to take an afternoon nap in. I know how reassuring and steady his hands are when he bandages a wound.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know enough.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Enough. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Enough will not save you life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t need fucking blackmail material.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alex-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. You know what? Unless you’re going to tell me where he is, it’s late, or early, or whatever, and you need to leave.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Leave now. Or I will fucking make you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blunt didn’t move for several seconds, and Alex wondered if he’d get to make good on his threat, but finally, reluctantly, the man got up to his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are still as stubborn as ever.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And yet, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yassen Gregorovich</span>
  </em>
  <span> managed to brainwash me? He had a year, you guy had what, six before he showed up? Bit embarrassing for British Intelligence, isn’t it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blunt paused as he passed by Alex, looking him in the eye one last time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He will be the death of you, Alex.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Better him that you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The farmhouse was silent after Yassen closed the door behind him. All of Alex hurt, outside and in. He was furious. He was tired. He was alone.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yassen was gone.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He was so angry he wanted to claw at the shadow of the man who had just left without a backwards glance. He had just killed 17 people to save Alex, and now he was just </span>
  </em>
  <span>leaving</span>
  <em>
    <span>? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>How dare he! Fucking bastard. Bloody fucking bastard fucker!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Alex wanted to cry. He could feel his shirt sticking to the slowly scabbing wounds on his torso. He could feel the burn marks on his arms. He could feel the blood dripping down his leg.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He could feel Yassen’s bullet tear through the skulls of his torturers like they were his own.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yassen was gone.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Alex Rider screamed.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alex cursed the Russian winter, and the Russian bastard that had forced him to travel to Saint-Petersbourg in December of all places, as he tried to zip his puffy coat higher. It wasn’t stylish, but it was the warmest thing he could find on short notice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On very short notice, because Alex had wanted to be at least in the air, if not on Russian soil before MI6 realized he had finally gotten a bead on his wayward partner. After their stunt with Alan Blunt, Alex was worried what their last ditch attempt to ‘reason’ with him would be. And whether it would involve violence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Heating turned to the maximum to semi-successfully fight the frigid winter air, Alex drove his ratty rental car out of the city. According to the coordinates he had found, whatever hole Yassen had made for himself was about an hour outside of Saint-Petersbourg, in the middle of a forested area. The place didn’t have an address, and no real sign of civilization showed on satellites images, but that meant very little. There was a main road circulating nearby, probably the way to get nearby. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From then, Alex would have to improvise. Knowing Yassen’s methods, even if he did find the path that lead from the main road to his hideout, it would be suicide to try and use without the appropriate permissions, by car or by foot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Breathe in. Breathe out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yassen was so close. Alex might have guessed wrong, he might be following a red herring, but he was more and more sure of himself as he drove. Ever since he had landed, the air felt different, tense, the way it did when Yassen watched over him from the scope of a sniper rifle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His skin felt too tight, too warm and too cold. Not-quite adrenaline vibrated through his bones. Alex was about to find Yassen again, and if he didn’t fuck up too badly, might bring him back to London with him. In London, in Alex’s life, in Alex’s house, within touching distance if Yassen was generous. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Where he belonged.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the GPS app on his phone indicated he was as close as he could expect to, he found a crook of the road to stash his car, out of view of the passersby, and hopefully from whatever security system Yassen had installed. He grabbed his bag, with his tools and the bottle of wine he had bought at the airport.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yassen was a very smart man, with a lot of experience. But Alex had two things going for him. One, he had spent a few years apprenticing under Smithers between missions, when the man had finally consented to return to MI6. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not in making gadgets, but in how to dismantle them, as well as security systems, electrical systems, and more general subjects, like coding and engineering. Science and math had always been his best subjects, and getting paid to hang out with Smithers was the closest he’d ever get to University. It also meant he was less dependent on the man’s gadgets when he went out in the field.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Second, was that Yassen hadn’t designed and constructed his security system to keep Alex Rider out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Most people Alex was sent against didn’t, because Alex had such a grab bag of disparate skills and experiences, as well as an unpredictable streak a mile wide, that what would keep the average agent out could prove little more than an inconvenience to him. Yassen had more than enough insight into Alex to stop him, but he wouldn’t. Both because he wouldn’t want to, and because, after the way they parted, he probably never expected Alex to come after him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stepping carefully into the underbrush, Alex took out the long range bug sensor he had brought. In a populated area, these were useless; they’d pick out too many false positives. But in the middle of nowhere, where any piece of technology had been deliberately placed by Yassen, they became a lifesaver. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex didn’t spend too much time worrying about land-mines. Yassen wouldn’t want to attract attention by accident. There might be explosives, but they would be detonated at his command, not just because an elk wandered in the wrong place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he started carefully weaving through the trees and the sensors. Destroying them, or even tampering with them might trigger an alarm. Alex would probably be able to hack into the system if he took the time, but the forest was thick enough that, when he knew where the cameras were, it wasn’t impossible to navigate around them and stay hidden. At least not impossible for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Assault teams would trample over the careful web despite their best efforts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he got closer to the coordinates he had found, he started getting glimpses of a house. It was smaller than he had expected, probably only a handful of reasonably sized rooms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, there might have been an expansive basement underneath his feet, but he doubted it. Large scale construction might attract attention. This, at least, explained why it didn’t show on satellite. Such a small building, in the middle of thick trees would be invisible, if the roof was camouflaged properly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The house itself was new, but in a beautiful traditional style. Alex had seen several similar, if less well maintained, houses on his ride here. Traditional, clean, handsome and discrete. If he had any doubts that this was Yassen’s house, they melted from the back of his mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Gotcha, you fucking bastard.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only when he was almost at the door did Alex take out his phone to send the one e-mail in his draft.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I brought white wine. Hope that’s fine.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He waited for fifteen seconds exactly, knowing that would be about the time Yassen would need to see and read the message, before he knocked, pulling the wine bottle out of his bag. He knew just enough about wine to be mostly sure it was a decent bottle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking up at the camera above the door, he waived the bottle. If Yassen wanted anything more from him, he’d have to open his bloody door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were large windows to the left of him, but the door itself was solid wood, so he had no way of knowing if anything was moving inside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was Yassen even home? Maybe he was out on errands? Maybe he was napping, and Alex would have to wait until he woke up, freezing his balls off on the man’s front porch. Maybe-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door opened slowly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yassen.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was pale in the cold winter light, smooth skin offset by his dark green sweater. His hair was slightly longer than it had been in Munich. His eyes stared at Alex, closer to shock than Alex thought Yassen Gregorovich was physically capable of.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alex had been so busy, so desperate to find him again, that he had almost forgotten.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was beautiful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nice house you got. Hard to track down.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alex.” Yassen’s voice was soft and muted, as if he was speaking to a spooked animal. Alex wondered which one of them he was trying to reassure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Going to let me in?”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Getting into Alex's headspace was more complicated than I would have thought. Way more emotions than Yassen. It's was a lot, but it was fun! </p>
<p>Let me know what you thought! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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